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I had sax owsen in a plough,
They drew a' weel enough;
I sell'd them a' just ane by ane,
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

Gude ale hauds me bare and busy,
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie,
Stand i' the stool when I hae done,
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.
O gude ale comes, and gude ale goes,
Gude ale gars me sell my hose,
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon,
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

 

O leave Novels.

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel;
Such witching books, are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mosgiel.
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
They make your youthful fancies reel,
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then ye're prey for Rob Mosgiel.

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung;
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part,
'Tis rakish art in Rob Mosgiel.